Ace of Knaves
by Quote-da-Raven
Summary: "If I'm going to have a past, I prefer it to be multiple choice!" -J
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer: I do not own the creation of The Joker. Nor any other DC, or Nolanverse related characters or themes. I do however own my original characters and plot, which isn't much, but I make an attempt. _**

"I am not saying I don't sympathize with his current predicament. I am just stating the obvious fact that he should have _known_ not to place Hydrofluoric acid in a glass beaker; it is a highly corrosive acid, capable of dissolving numerous materials, it's especially oxidant. Its ability to dissolve glass has been known since the seventeenth century any child with a play chemist set knows that. " The young man who spoke did not falter in his pacing. The significantly shorter man beside him struggled to keep up with his long strides. The shorter man was not short by society standards but rather situational. The man who he struggled to walk beside superseded conventional height probabilities. He also neglected proper social etiquettes, such as adjusting ones pace, to amend such differences in heights.

The shorter of the two men ignored his callousness and quickened his pace. He just opted to view it as a built in cardio session."Again. Your empathy borders somewhere between arrogant asshole and outright sociopathic," the two rounded the long corridor completely oblivious to the other hoards of individuals meandering towards their destinations. Instead they navigated their familiar pathway, engrossed in the all too familiar bickering. This was how every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday afternoon went. Their route led them down the steep descent of a narrow stairwell and out the side door of the of a large concrete building the large brass letters, plastered on side read, bldg. #24-Chemical Engineering. It was displeasing to the eye.

It was late Fall in Gotham the leaves had already changed colors and fallen, swept away by the oncoming chill of winter. The courtyard was devoid of any human interaction, besides the hurried steps of students grudgingly braving the elements to attend courses. The attire was thick coats, oversized wool scarves and knitted caps. The two men suppressed a shiver and quickened their stride, the shorter man was almost jogging to keep step now.

The familiar ding of the quaint café bell was a welcomed relief from the cold. The café was not far from campus, only a few blocks away from the main hall. It was set between a dry cleaner, whose occupants lived upstairs their shop, and often frequented the diner; they were responsible for the lovely plush jackets the two young men wore. Being as the two were on a fixed, college student income, some necessities were hard to come by. The staff of the cleaners had gladly adorned them with forgotten jackets of prior clients. The other adjoining building was a vacant dilapidated apartment complex that had been foreclosed. It stood as dwelling to attract the seedy homeless and young punks.

The two headed for their usual back booth located across for the narrow swinging doors that led in and out of the small kitchen. And before the short hallway that led to the uni-sex bathroom.

On a Wednesday at three o'clock the diner was nearly empty, an elderly couple sat at the front of the restaurant, against the steamed windows, sipping warm drinks, against the fogged glass. It looked like an ad for an engagement ring commercial. The two folded into the L-shaped booth and as usual removed their jackets and settled in.

"Aye ya'll," The recognizable compress in the booths cushion accompanied the homespun twang. A petite girl with large doe eyes, red hair and a face full of equally red freckles, folded into the seat, her little partial apron covered in food stains concealed her humble waitress dress. "How was class?" She started out with the usual formalities.

"Fine, other than the use of are emergency wash sink and the paramedics," stated the short man, he gave her a kind smile despite the gruesome topic.

"What?! What in the seven Heavens happened?" She looked genuinely worried and her accent thickened as her speech became more pressured with concern.

"Aren't your Christian?" The taller man interjected. "Don't your people only acknowledge the existence of one celestial level of Heaven? Should you really be swearing on others religious beliefs?" He asked snidely.

She shot him a nasty sideways glance, "Oh, hush Jackson. Just cause' yah ain't had your coffee and dry English muffin yet doesn't mean you can go all post-menopausal, yah hear." She pursued her thin lips into a straight line of disapproval and dared him to challenge her.

Jackson dismissed the challenge, but refused to be put in place, "Speaking of my coffee and English muffin, it would seem perhaps such a responsibility might fall to the waitress of this fine establishment." He arched a dark blond eye brown in mock inquiry.

She rolled her eyes and pushed herself up fiercely, like a rag doll, using the table as leverage, "Sampsen the usual?" She kindly averted her attention towards the shorter man, whom had not spoken again since his initial statement. He was used to the banter, he had learned quickly to let it just commence rapidly so that the conversation could continue on undeterred. He nodded in confirmation to young woman, pushing his thin rimmed glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Thank you, Daisy." His soft gray eyes peeked up at her and he gave her an apologetic smile.

With one last disdainful glare in Jackson attention, she stalked back into the kitchen. Putting a little sway in her step and muttering under her breath, "Oh, I'll getchyah' the coffee, hon."

Sampsen watched her leave. And let out a low whistle, "You better be careful, bro. I've heard an excessive amount of Sodium Fluoride is a painful way to go." He jived.

"If you are suggesting the painful cliché that Dear lil' Daisy," He mocked her inflection. "Might attempt to poison my coffee with the active ingredient in run-of-the-mill rat poison, I fear you probably greatly over-estimate her aptitude for plotting." Jackson responded in a disinterested tone while going about his usual task of organizing the available condiments at the booth in order of self-deemed importance.

Sampsen ignored the compulsive oddity. And instead withdrew his MacBook Air from his satchel and inserted the wireless internet card; the diner didn't support Wi-Fi, which they had quickly discovered. The dark screen blinked to life in sync with Daisy's return. She sat down two drinks, holding a tray.

"One black coffee for the sourpuss on the far left," She leaned across the table a placed the coffee rather forcibly down causing some of the hot dark liquid to splash from the mug. "And one Apple cider for the sweet-pea," she placed the cider in front of Sampsen. Resting the tray on the table she distributed a dainty dish of cinnamon sticks to accompany the cider and a sticky cinnamon roll. Sampsen had a bit of a sweet tooth.

"Oh and here yah go," Daisy slid the dry, slightly-over-toasted English muffin across the table in Jackson's direction. "A' right now spill," she slithered into the L-shaped booth next to Jackson, dismissing their earlier quarrel for the tantalizing prospect of gossip, leaning eagerly upon her elbows across the table as she looked between the two men. "What happened?"

"Idiocy," responded Jackson in an instant, bringing the mug to his lips for a long deep drink. And not even warranting the time for Sampsen to respond.

"It was not, idiocy" Sampsen interjected in defense. "It was a mistake, it cou . . ." He was cut short.

"Pfft." Jackson looked disgusted, as he leered at the other man out of the corner of his eye. "Mistake?"

"Yes," argued Sampsen as he placed a napkin in his lap to avoid drips from the warm cinnamon roll icing.

"No a mistake is failing to take advantage of your one free credit report check that you are entitled to once a year to discover any errors that could potentially prevent you from paying too much for a loan or being denied a credit card. Placing Hydrofluoric acid in a glass beaker at a graduate level is . . . well . . . as the appropriate term used before, idiocy. And I sincerely hope you were not about to finish that sentence with, 'it could happened to anyone.' Because then I am going to be put in the unpleasant position of needing to reassess who I fraternize with." Jackson concluded his monologue with loud crunch, as he bit into the crisp muffin.

"Am I missing something?" Daisy looked between the two men with the usual muddled expression of confusion, as usual.

Sampsen was kind enough to clue her in. "Hydrofluoric acid has to be stored in plastic containers because it is so caustic it will eat right through glass."

"And he happened to be handling the chemicals without proper attire," Jackson interrupted. "Didn't burn his skin, but judging by the screams, more than likely passed through undetected and started to dissolve the bone; seeing as it's a decalcifier. And since calcium and silicon share certain chemical properties, it has to be stored in plastic containers as it will eat right through glass. The only treatment was to flush the contacted skin for at least half an hour, slop on some calcium-rich cream and hope he got it in time as he head towards for the emergency room. Due to quick the regiment treatment it more than likely it won't cause any potential heart defects."

"That is terrible!" Daisy exclaimed in horrid disbelief, she visibly suppressed a shiver, wringing her fleshy hands together.

"Hmm, yes, but not the worst. We also worked with Silane, a gas that spontaneously combusts on contact with oxygen and burns with an invisible flame. That was arguably worse by comparison." Jack proceeded to shimmy out of the booth, not bothering to ask Daisy slide over, instead he relied on his sheer size to bulldoze her backwards subconsciously.

"For once I agree with you," Sampsen interjected, "Now there is a scary thought." He finished.

"What working with deadly chemicals or agreeing with sour puss?" Daisy suppressed a giggle at her jest but couldn't contain the gleam in her eye, as she caught Sampsen's and they shared a private laugh.

"Hey where are you going?!" Sampsen asked confused, eyes scrutinizing Jackson, as Jackson finally prevailed in forcing Daisy from the bench, and adorning his jacket.

"I am wanted back at the campus in little under an hour." He offered no further explanation.

"Why didn't you say something?" Sampsen went to rise from his seat.

Jackson held up a hand yieldingly, "Just myself. This does not pertain to any of our classwork or extra-curricular experiments."

Sampsen looked slightly put off, "Then what?"

"Don't be overtly needy Sampsen." Jackson scoffed. "The dean has approached me with a sole special project." Jackson concluded, buttoning the last button on his coat. "This jacket has far too many buttons for functionality." He murmured to no one in particular.

"Special project?!" Sampsen went from looking put off, to utterly insulted. "Why you?" He demanded, his tone blatantly snarky.

"Maybe he rendered the likelihood of his only daughter learning stoichiometry so improbable that he went with the most likely apt individual to prevail at such feat . . . me." And with that Jackson spun on his heels and retreated out of the small diner.

"Arrogant ass." Sampsen muttered as the door was whipped shut by and autumn breeze. Daisy gave him a kind knowing smile.

Jackson navigated the campus back towards the library for the second time that day, ignoring the chill. He didn't welcome the warmth of the grand library hall as he entered, like most would. He was used to the cold, unlike many he had adapted. He took a seat at one of the many heavy oak tables on the second floor, and waited, and waited, and waited and waited some more. He eyed his watch 5:36 p.m. they were supposed to meet at 5 p.m. He hated tardiness. And this was an inexcusable absence. He decided that if she did not arrive by 5:40 p.m. he would leave. And tell Dean Winterfelt to kindly suck it. At 5:38 p.m. he found himself wishing he had opted for leaving at 5:37 p.m. instead, because sure enough the noisy footfall of a young woman could be heard half way across the library.

"Jackson?" He heard his name, and her boisterous pursuit, but did not see her.

"Jackson?!" Her voice rose slightly in decibel. Was this girl really going to potentially yell in a library in order to locate him?

He didn't have time to debate the notion, "JACKSON?!" He cringed visually, that was when he caught sight of her. She was wandering between the isles on the lower level. Begrudgingly he stood and approached the railings waiting for a chance to flag down her attention. It took a moment before she thought to look upwards. As soon as she did he gave an attempt at a half-enthused wave. Their eyes locked and she beamed her face breaking into an ear splitting grin. She waved unreservedly in return and raced towards the staircase.

By the time he had slinked back to his table she had ascended the flight of stairs and made her way over to his table.

"Hey!" She closed the distance between the two and sat down next to him. "Sorry I am a few late." She brushed her dark hair from her eyes and gave an overly-sympathetic face of acknowledgement, a face that undoubtedly got her out of numerous similar predicaments with male counter-parts.

"A few?" He snapped, arching a dark blonde eye-brow in response. "A few is characterized by no greater than three, but more than a couple, which is two, there is no appropriate terminology for how late you are. Other than rude." He folded his hands in front of him and antagonized her cheerful gaze, causing it to falter. She looked away quickly under the heat of his gaze. And shifted awkwardly running her hand through her hair once more, a nervous habit she attempted to pass of as being a tantalizing gesture, he'd already established this.

He could already gather she was widely insecure. His first hint to her insecurity was her appearance. To any other hot blooded college male she would prove a delectable mate. But for him her well groomed nails, stylish little knock-off bomber jacket, flowing printed top, matching colored-leggings and cute flats. And ebony hair softly curled framing her high cheekbones and contrasting with her hazel eyes, concealed behind the immaculate application of just the appropriate amount of make-up; indicated a desperate need for approval. Why else would she put fashion above practicality and basic necessities? It was nearly winter, and impossible that the sham top, thin legging, leather jacket and flats, which exposed to top portion of her feet, supplied enough warmth for comfort. And he was willing to bet the reason behind her prior delay was to finish these tasks of readying her physical appearance, which he deduced from her obvious recent application of vanilla perfume.

"Yeah . . ." She trailed off muttering to herself in response to his critical response. "Sorry. Jackson, right?" She attempted to recover by making a change in the subject, and attempting to establish a familiarity by the usage of first names. "Of course it is." She responded for him, hitting her forehead playfully with her right hand, to portray the dumbness of the question.

"My father said you are like super smart! Like Rain-Man meets Einstein. Thank you so much for agreeing to help me. I need this chemistry credit BAD!" She emphasized the last word, crossing her small fingers. On her right hand, ring finger she wore a simple silver band, it matched her necklace he observed. He often noticed things that others did not. Sometimes in appearance, other times an individual's movement, or speech pattern. He took things in incredibly quickly which allowed him to make quick observations backed by factual conclusions. And because of this of course her attempt at flattery, to lessen her tactlessness, did not go unnoticed by him.

"I am Violet by the way." She offered him her hand. And finally the last attempt at reconciliation, physical contact. He merely stared at her hand, and when he didn't move to take it she let it fall, discouraged, until finally she let her hand slip back into her lap, under the table. _Concealment_-she was feeling ashamed, naked; she wanted to cover up her flaws, her failure.

She had read once that these genius types didn't like physical contact. She tried to reassure herself that was merely the sole reason behind his rudeness. True she had been late but she had awoken late, after a brief nap, and had been forced to get ready in a frazzled hurry. His dark eyes were unnerving. It was almost impossible to tell they were actually green. She had difficulty seeing where she stood in them. Just when she thought the silence would drive her senseless, he spoke.

"Like the color or the flower?" His voice was deep and resonated in his chest creating a slight nasal tone. But it wasn't displeasing. It was the first time she had actually listened to it and not the condensation attached to his wording. It was also the first time he wasn't snapping at her, so she could really hear him.

"Huh?" She looked at him slightly confused.

He started again, agitation creeping back into in his voice, "Your name. Violet." He spat out the word. "Like the color or the flower?"

"Oh," she dumbly stated as the inquiry clicked. "I've never really thought about it. Not sure. Maybe both?" She phrased it as a question, attempting to please both options.

He leered at her out the corner of his eye, "Well which is it? A name like Violet is uncommon, indicating an emotional attachment towards it, and its root origin."

"The flower," she suggested uncertain.

"Are you sure?" he questioned.

"No, But the violet flower is called violet because it's violet. So there you go. Best of both worlds." Her eye lashes fluttered involuntarily. She loved violets. Mentally she made a note to pick some up for her mother to plant in the garden this Saturday for family brunch, she would love that.

"The violet flower is named after the herbaceous plant of the genus Viola." He responded, unfazed. "It is a short-spurred, irregular flower that is typically a purplish-blue, or violet, in color. True. But they can also be flat purple, blue, yellow, white, or variegated flowers. It is not resolute in its coloring. Therefore they cannot be tangibly linked." She ogled him clueless; honestly she wasn't even sure what half the things in that sentence meant.

Violet tried to shake off the flustered feeling that was developing. She tore her gaze away from his. Suddenly she felt exceedingly scrutinized. Why on earth did it matter what she was named after. It was just a name. She thought about attempting to turn the tables on him, and sassily ask him why he was named Jackson. But a part of her assumed he'd actually probably know why.

Digging into her oversizing hobo-bag she pulled out her Chem101 book. _Chemistry: Human Activity, and Chemical Reactivity. _She set it on the table along with a small owl notebook her best friend had given her several birthdays ago, and a Snow White pen. She had the entire collection of Disney Princess light-up pens. And she was comfortable enough in her maturity to admit it.

"Where shall we begin?" she asked eagerly despite the tension.

"How about with the material you covered in class today? If you feel comfortable with that then we can proceed." Logical enough.

It would help if she had been at class today . . . She thought somewhat bitterly. She scolded herself and tried to muster the appropriate amount of remorse for her actions. She had taken a nap because she been out late with her roomie at the Gotham Fall festival. She hadn't been doing anything inappropriate but they hadn't gotten home till the wee hours of the morning. Violet bit her lip, looking up at her tutor from a submissive position, with worried eyes. She didn't think he would like this transpiration of events.

"What?!" He had no time for silly little games, and the girl was already proving to be irritable.

"We could do _that_ . . ." She exhaled sharply thru her front teeth and drew out, that. Perhaps she could fool him. "Or yah know we could just jump right into the learning process." She grinned eagerly and opened the book to the table of contents. "Oh look theory testing. That looks interesting! We could start there." She flipped towards the designated page, hands trembling slightly.

"That's the lab manual, used for recording observations during your lab times." He stated bluntly.

"Oh," disheartened she stopped her searching.

"How about with where your teacher left off." Jackson stated once more, firmly, his tone daring her to lie to him.

"Okay, so look . . ." She gnawed at the inside of her cheek and spun in her seat to face Jackson. He stayed seated forward. Opting to gaze at her from the corner of her eye, the positioning made him look on high alert. Like a horse unsure of what someone was going to do, once they disappeared out of sight, behind.

"So I may have missed class, today . . ." She gave a weak smile.

"Mmmhmm." His tone postulated that he had already assumed this, and she felt the judgment wash over her in a wave. "Well then where did he leave off the prior lesson?" He purred, urging her on, towards a swift completion.

"And that one too," She blurted out. "As well as the time before that." She looked guiltily at him. Her Petite shoulders slumping forward. She felt the sting of heat rising to her eyes threatening to brim over. She'd be dammed if she cried about something so silly, or gave him the satisfaction of her tears! But the fact of the matter was, combined with her guilt over struggling to meet her father expectations, Jackson just wasn't very nice. Kind of handsome. But not nice. And she was beginning to have the terrible feeling that this was going to be one boy she couldn't flirt with to get an A. PLUS she hadn't even wanted to study chemistry anyways! She had pleaded with her father to let her go to art school in Metropolis. He had refused.

Jackson exhaled audibly in sever annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Alright then let's just pick up from where you last remember." He pulled the book towards him in a jerky movement.

"That's kinda the point." She knitted her eyebrows together her face contorting into a mix of emotions. Her voice was a tiny whisper, "I don't exactly know where . . . or anything, as to where we're at." A few seconds passed as she waited for his reaction, with anticipation. After a moment she wondered if he had even heard her.

Conversely the slamming of her Chemistry book and his abrupt rise from the table, as his chair slid backwards across the old hardwood flooring, screeching loudly and causing her to jump. He gathered up his belongings.

"Wait! Where are you going?" Violet cried desperately, as soon as she had recovered from his unexpected stance.

"Leaving," was his only response.

She regarded him frantically, "Why?" She leapt to her feet. Only to feel dwarfed. Sitting Jackson did not look like a large man; he slouched over slightly, and seemed to pull in to himself. However once unfolded and standing at his apex height, he towered over the typical male height. He had to be just south of 6' 5" because he loomed over her 5' 5" by nearly a full foot. His shoulders were broad and his long and sinewy limbs intensified his height. His unkempt blonde hair made him appear savage in appearance and his dark eyes contained a feral secrecy. He spun to look down at her and she shrank away from his dark eyes and what she saw there. Her palms began to sweat and she inadvertently gripped the back of the chair, to assure herself.

He respond to her desperation, "Because not only do you _not_ care what you choose to do with your time, which in conclusion is obviously nothing, more importantly, and incorrectly assumed you possessed the right to, you do _not_ care what you do with my time. You have wasted far too much of my time already Viol_et_," he was sure to include her name so the message was entrenched in her immediate thought. "I suggest you reevaluate why you deem yourself above the notion of applying yourself. And your immediate assumption in regards to the delusions that others will do it for you." He slung his shoulder bag across his chest.

His words stung. But primarily because at the root of them, lay some minuscule of truth, that Violet did not care to explore. She watched as he retreated out of sight down the staircase, only to materialize on the first floor and cross the library floor. It was only after he'd been consumed by the entry way, not to return, that Violet allowed some of the shock to wear off. Naturally her first response was to stick her tongue out at him, yell and swear. Go give him a piece of her mind. Right in the middle of the University Square in front of everyone else, lots of people! Lots of people so there would be lots of witnesses so he wouldn't be able to retaliate. Odd that her mind went to having people around for that reason and not to embarrass him back. And the close second was to look around in mortification, attempting to gather if anyone else had bared witness to her scolding. She let out the breath that she hadn't even been aware she'd been holding, when all sign pointed towards no spectators, she made her quick retreat. She headed the back way towards her dorm, to avoid the University Square . . .

_Authors note: read and review/tell me which past seems more probable to you. Who knows how many will crop up. 3_


	2. Chapter 2

Dean Winterfelt gazed out the window of his opulent, enormous mansion, down the long yard that stretched far and wide towards the high walls immersed in vines. A young man tended to the tree-trimming. He worked huddled in the warmth of his thick generic coat, trying to avoid chill. This particular house was filled with Gotham's history and often rife with social drama on the weekends, when all the socialites would assemble for calculated, light conversation, and share in a cigar and brandy. And one of Dean Winterfelt's favorite topics to discuss at these gatherings was the history of his home. He liked to brag how this beautiful home could have easily become another facility just like Arkham Asylum; Dean Winterfelt liked to indicate they had rescued this home, from potential evil. He claimed it was too beautiful to have any harm fall too. Just like his little Violet. His other pride and joy; his only offspring, she may not carry on his name but he was convinced she would be remembered by in Gotham's history.

Elizabeth Arkham had once been in dual possession of the both the Winterfelt's home and the infamous Asylum, that was before her son sold it grandpappie's father. It was such a tragedy about her, and her son Amadeus, the Dean would always say. As if he knew them personally. The other home, which she kept in her possession was donned "Mercey Mansion," but now stood as Gotham's home for the criminally insane.

Elizabeth had struggled with her mental illness for years, which drove Amadeus to become a psychiatrist. They sold the second home to grandpappie's father, so Amadeus could pay medical school off and hire a live to stay with his mother while he attended courses. Years later, Amadeus returned home, and found his mother growing worse he aided her in committing suicide. After her death he turned Mercey Mansion, into a facility for the mentally ill.

He gave up his practice his, a moved his wife Constance and daughter Harriet into the mansion. During the remodeling process, one of Metropolis Penitentiary inmates broke into Amadeus's living quarters. Amadeus was out but returned home that night and discovered both his wife and daughter had been raped and murdered, with the perpetrators name carved into Constance's chest. When Arkham Asylum finally opened that November, the culprit was apprehended and became one of Arkham's first patients. Amadeus demanded to treat him personally. After months of treatment, with no improvement in behavior Amadeus opted to kill him with a lethal dosage of electroshock therapy. Of course, the incident was ruled accidental, but it was the beginning of Amadeus's slide into insanity, he eventually became an inmate, and died in his own asylum on the other side of the glass.

It was a tragic story, and her father told it so well. And those visiting would sit around intently listening. Because people were fascinated by the Arkham family, people were fascinated by darkness.

Violet, her mother and grandmother worked in the kitchen. On Saturdays they sent home the kitchen help during the lunch hours and gathered together to prepare brunch, just the ladies of the household. While dad and grandpappie waited in the parlor room and challenged one another to chess, or Chinese checkers and spoke of past things.

This had been all Violet had ever known. Growing up she _knew _not all children lived like her. But like many children born into privilege she had never realized the extent of it. Their wealth did not rival Bruce Wayne's but they were considered some of Gotham's wealthiest.

Violet worked busily in the massive kitchen with the two other woman of the household. Preparing comfort foods that would soon provide the feeling of well-being and satisfy the growing hunger. They always spent the entirety of the morning cooking the delightful smells wafted through the vast house, filling every square inch. Today's menu was a twice baked potato recipe that grandma had altered so it served as breakfast dish. When she scooped the potato out and put it in a bowl she add scrambled egg not quite completely cooked, but still with some shape. Then mash the potato and egg lightly with a fork along with 2 to 3 tablespoons of the butter, stir in the scallion, nutmeg, and season with salt. And after refill the shells with the potato mixture mounding it slightly and sprinkling cheese on top of the potato filling, they would cook for twenty minutes. While the potato's cooked they would chop up fresh bacon into little bits and fry it. Today they also cooked in a few olives and spinach. When the potatoes were done they draped the ingredients over the top. The desired effect was an omelet in a hash brown. But it wasn't the meal that required such preparation. The majority of the morning was dedicated to cooking dessert, which varied. Today it was Mama's pecan pie.

Violet took a sip of her freshly squeezed orange juice and leaned against the granite counter. She looked between her mother, who looked lovely as always, and her grandmother, whose age was finally beginning to show. Deep groves were set into where her laugh lines normally formed. Age spots formed on her neck, and her eyelids drooped slightly. Yet she vigorously rolled the pie crust out with an old vintage rolling pin, throwing her weight into it, and meticulously scrutinizing it's ever detail. Grandma prided herself on her pies. And she was still as every bit as beautiful as she was when she'd been young.

"Vi, be a dear and pour me a glass of orange juice." Her mother's soft musical voice requested, with a slight hint of accent. She stood with her hands in the mashed potatoes and eggs, re-mounding them into the hollowed skins of the potatoes. Violets mother was a beautiful woman, but Violet expected nothing less. Her father liked nice things. Sometimes Violet wondered if they would have gotten rid of her, like in Sparta, if she had been ugly or had some birth defect. She liked to tell herself of course not. But sometimes when she watched her father at his social-mixers, she wondered otherwise.

Her mother was European, French; the two had met on a business trip. Her father had married her so she could obtain citizenship. Otherwise they would have been perfectly content as common-law partners. Her mother was a psychiatrist, a reason why she had worked hard to reduce her accent. She wanted her patients to be able to conversely easily with her. Violet's father had paid for her mother to go all the way through school. Sometimes Violet felt bad for her mother. She looked at her and wondered if that was what she had really wanted. One time when Violet was eleven she had been exploring the walk in attic and stumbled upon a box of beautiful sketches and watercolors, when she had inquired about them, her mother just smiled weakly. And told her in a faraway voice her eyes slightly glazed over, 'that was another time dear, another dream.'

Other times Violet would hear her singing from another room, when she thought no one was listening. Her mother had a glorious voice. Violet liked to believe that she had obtained her creativity from her songbird mother. But of course like her father had more than likely told her mother, so had he told Violet. 'You must get a real education, so you can get a real job. No one is going to pay to watch you dance, nor sing, you will never be able to make enough money selling your paintings in order to live a lifestyle you're accustomed too. Grow up Violet.'

Violet had been devastated at eighteen when her father had taken the initiative to enroll her at the University without so much as a brief counsel. Of course Violet had rebelled by spending the first two of her college years by taking nothing but elective courses in art and music. Now in her Junior year, she struggled with the daunting task of completing all her core classes, whilst her friends enjoyed a lighter course load. She had finally begrudgingly approach her father about a tutor. She suppressed a shiver as she thought back to last Wednesday. Maybe this was how her father was punishing her. She had made him the laughingstock of the school board for two years, while she study basket weaving and learned to play the harp. He in return found the biggest asshole at school to educate her on chemical structures, and lecture her on personality flaws. In fact her father probably paid him extra for the latter.

"These are so beautiful, darling." Her mother had rid her hands of the potato innards with the help of a little soap and water. She now examined the flowers Violet had brought her. "You know Violets are my favorite," she gave her daughter a brief squeeze and a quick kiss on the side of her forehead. "I ordered just the perfect hanging pot-holder for these. I'll have them hung outside." Her mother also loved to online shop, she consulted people all day about obsessions and addictions, even gave some medications for these faults. Yet every night she haunted the internet, purchasing items she did not need, nor would she ever.

"I thought you would like them," Violet beamed. She hopped up onto the counter, like she had when she was a child, feeling the cool granite through her jeans. Her grandmother snorted, in obvious disapproval. Then without giving much thought to it she asked, "Did you name me after them?"

"After what dear?" Her mother responded distracted, as she placed the potatoes into the oven, with a loud clang.

"The flowers. Did you name me after the flower or the color?" Violet took another long sip of the orange juice, and awaited her mother's response.

"Silly girl," She closed the oven and set the alarm, returning the oven mitts to the hook over the stove. "Neither, I named you after a song."

Violet felt a mischievous smile break out over her face, she felt oddly a triumphant. "A song, huh?"

"Yes and a beautiful one at that. Now get down off that counter and help gran with the pie." She shooed at Violet with the dishrag.

Jackson entered thru the side door, of the furthest eastern dorm. It was the only dorm that had not yet been renovated. It was where they housed the derelicts, renegades, partiers and those on scholarships. It was as if the school tried to sabotage those whom were on a free ride, by tempting them with others, who were choosing to be unsuccessful. Jackson had to keep above at 3.7, otherwise he was out, not that this was particularly hard. He had been a straight student all through high school. Until he had dropped out, and opted to obtain a GED.

He entered the adjoining stairwell, disregarding the long since out of order elevator, and instead began the climb to the fifth floor. He pushed passed the regular hookah smokers on the third floor and ignored the couples in intense lip lock. He cringed as he passed the young man playing his guitar, out of tune, in front of the fifth floor entrance. The guitar player and his friends smelt terrible, the two females who swayed in time with the cringe worthy music, had full heads of dreads. Charming, Jackson thought bitterly. He pulled the door opened without as much as an excuse me; or a sorry, when he bumped the younger of the two women. She glared at him. He dismissed her, and chose to ignore the hushed angered whispers that followed his behavior.

His nose was bombarded as he entered the fifth floor. It always smelled terrible, just like those people in the stairwell. It smelt of old food, poor hygiene and too many bodies confided. The Eastern dorm symbolized by the Jester was the second oldest dorm on campus, named after the school's mascot. The first dorm was named after the founding father; The Endleman House. All the sororities and fraternities were housed around the Endleman House. The Jester House was the only co-ed dorm. The name of the house and the shenanigans of its occupants didn't leave a positive legacy. They were often referred to as the clowns of the campus, by others.

Jackson made his way past the recreation room, which was littered with bodies strewn over, overstuffed armchairs. Someone had brought their game console out, and they were taking turns playing four player games. Meanwhile several people cooked a stir-fry, with cheap ingredients, in the kitchen nook, a small kitchenette which was directly off the rec-room. Those not involved in either of those activities sat with headphones on, attempting to study. Or were clinging to each other like a second skin, flirting shamelessly.

Jackson passed all this and pushed onward down the southern hallway, towards his room. He was the third to last room on this side of the wing. The door was ajar. Otherwise, it would have read 597. One of his two roommates, Ted, was sprawled across the lower futon. Jackson was unsurprised to see two women in his attendance. Jackson's other roommate was a young woman who happened to be in a relationship with Ted. She however was not in attendance. Ted and her were _supposedly_ in a polyamorous relationship. But judging by the fights which awoke everyone on the fifth floor, at least once a week, Jackson was willing to bet that was more Ted's idea.

Elena was a sad girl. She was not ugly by any means. But she was not beautiful either. She was what Jackson liked to call universal. She would be forgotten, just another face in the crowd, never leaving a memorable mark on society. And so she let Ted carry on this polyamorous, crock of a relationship, and she pretended like she was okay with it. That she even liked it. Because she feared what would happen if she didn't. She feared he would leave her. And then what? Elena just wanted so desperately to be a part of something, to be loved. It was almost enough to make Jackson pity her, almost.

"Aye, man." Ted took a long drag off his cigarette, letting the ash accumulate on the concrete flooring. They hadn't bothered to put a rug down, for this reason. All three of the roommate's chain smoked. There was probably something in the dorm living agreement which prohibited this, but no gave a shit.

"How was the week?" Ted asked. He and Jackson rarely saw each other, especially during the week. During the week much of the time Jackson stayed with Sampsen, at his small apartment right off campus. Sampsen's parents had gotten it for him and paid the first 13 months on it, for his congratulatory on graduate school. However on the weekends Sampsen went home. He had told Jackson he was welcome to stay over the weekends. But Jackson wasn't one for handouts. He had no way to pay Sampsen for the utilities he'd be using, or the food he'd be consuming. So instead he returned to the dorms for the weekends.

"About the same as usual." Jackson folded into the futon opposite Teds. There was only a small walk way that separated the two. A third bunk-bed rose above Ted's futon. Jackson didn't have many personal belongings so he had given his small closet to Elena. What he did have he kept in a small, locked trunk, at the end of his futon. He didn't know why he even bothered locking it. No one would steal clothes here. Not with I-pods, I-pads, laptops, game stations ect . . . laying around. He was pretty low on the target list. He didn't even own a laptop; instead he did all his homework in the library, or by hand. His teachers loved that, especially when he wrote entire papers in his chicken scratch handwriting. Many had banned writing papers longhand, because of him. So he was forced to be a captive of the library hours. Ted tossed Jackson the pack and Jackson lit up a cigarette as well and inhaled deeply, leaning back and allowing his head to rest against the wall.

"I hear yah brother; it's like the same shit different day. Gettin' so sick of all this," Ted liked to act like a thug. But Jackson knew better. When Jackson had been working in the records department on student worksource, a program which got students jobs through the school, he had _stumbled_ across Ted's file. Ted's father was a big time donator to the school. Helped the girls swim team get a new pool. Ted just wanted to be a rebel. In fact Ted had put in a request forum for The Jester House. Just wasting daddy's dime. Jackson didn't care though, Ted gave him free cigarettes. So he kept his dirty little secret.

"Why dontchyah go cozy up to Jackson over there, huh?" He patted the blonde women on the butt. "It's cold outside, look at the poor fellow, barely enough clothes on his back to keep him warm." The two women giggled, and eyed Jackson, intrigued. The blonde got up coyly, following her instructions and sank into the futon beside him.

Jackson stiffened slightly. He wasn't one for close proximity with another individual, but even he had to admit it had been awhile since he'd been rubbed off. She turned sideways and draped her legs across his thighs. The blonde was obviously not a natural one, her roots were beginning to show and her brown eyes indicated a melanocyte dark dominate gene. Her small eyes were lined with coal liner, making them appear even smaller. She did have big lips though, a plus, all things considered.

"Beer?" Ted reached into the small mini-fridge, located beneath the only window. He pulled out one for him and his lady. "Of course," the blonde's voice was nasally. Jackson wished she wouldn't speak. Ted popped the top with his belt buckle for her, and passed it to her.

"Jack?" He pulled out one more, raising his eyebrows in inquiry. Jackson gave a nod in response. "Alright, Butchyah gotta pop the cap yourself, you ain't no bitch!" He winked playfully and gave it a good toss in his direction. Luckily Jackson was a decent catch otherwise the blonde would have had a black eye. She squealed and buried her face into his arm.

Brunch went off as normal. Without a hitch. Pie was served accordingly after the proper passage of time. Appropriate talk had been spent conversing over the weekly activities. And, besides father, the family spent the rest of the afternoon in the activity room. Grandfather watched the croquet channel, a specialty channel. Father retired to his study to work, the University did not run itself. Grandmother, Violet and her mother took turns playing the winner at foosball.

During a particular heated match between her mother and grandmother Violet stepped out for some air. Pulling her jacket off the coat hanger she opened the heavy door on the autumn chill. Violet looked across the grounds. So beautiful they were, and always had been, for as long as she could remember. The tree-trimmers had finished and now she was the sole person outside. She inhaled the fresh air and sat on the grand steps, lined with beautiful potted plants. It wasn't until the car was within earshot of the gravel crunching that she realized someone had entered through the gates.

Violet's head snapped up to see a dark car coming to a halt, around the fountain, and in front of the grand stairs. The windows were so tinted they had to be in violation of some law. The driver jumped out first, to open the door, which was not odd. However the individual who followed next was. A man with a bald misshapen head, thick bushy eyebrows, and a dense beard accenting his jawline, giving his head the illusion of a pear, stepped out of the car. He was dressed immaculately in a black tux, his eyes concealed behind coke-bottle glasses. The driver hurriedly reached into the car and removed the man's suitcase and handing it to him.

"You must be dear, Violet. Your father has told me so much about you. He constantly raves about you" The man started up the stairs. Violet eyed him suspiciously, unsure of her next move. He could not be too much of a threat. Security had to buzz everyone thru, and they only received direct approval from her father. So more than likely her father was on her way down, or they shot security…

"Mister Strange," She heard her father's business voice behind her. The one he used for negotiating.

"Dr. Winterfelt," Mister Strange smiled revealing a full set of shark like teeth. The two clasped hands, firmly.

"Come in, come in" he gestured him to come inside. "Come on Vi, its cold out here." He gave his daughter a tight squeeze on the shoulder, and a little tug. She rose begrudgingly and followed her father. Mister Strange held out his hand and gestured for her to proceed first through the door. He was obviously trying to be nice, Violet had to remind herself. It wasn't his fault he was born so creepy.

She gave her best attempt at a smile, "Thank you." She responded, and followed behind her father. She thought she would sneak off back to the activity room, but it was to no avail.

"Violet, why don't you be a sweetie and grab Mister Strange a warm drink," He turned to Mister Strange in inquiry.

"Coffee," Strange responded. "Black," he gave a half smile at Violet, the kind that was always accompanied with a wink. However the glasses concealed his eyes, but she was willing to bet he had winked.

"Of course," she replied, as well trained as ever. "And for you father?"

"Nothing baby, we will be in the office." And with that the two men retreated down the hallway engrossed in conversation, casual conversation.

Violet headed down to the kitchen, she thought about just nuking the old pot of coffee in the microwave, but thought better of it. If this was an important deal for her father she didn't want to jeopardize it in anyway. Instead she dumped the remaining contents, rinsed out the container and started a fresh pot. It seemed like it took an eternity to brew. She helped herself to another piece of pecan pie while she waited.

Her father's door was slight ajar as she approached with the tray. Violet had become an expert at carrying hot drinks on a tray, her father was a coffee man, and her mother a tea women. She had brought creamer and a little bit of milk and sugar just in case Mister Strange changed his mind.

She heard her father's deep voice speaking frantically. "I don't know how much more you want from me. If this becomes any more convoluted the board will begin to notice, I've already told you I don't feel comfortable with the amount of inside money, we've pilfered, towards this . . ." Her father's voice sound desperate and it caused alarm. She felt her pulse quicken, and took a step closer hopping to catch the end.

She almost jumped out of her skin. "Violet, thank you. How sweet you are my dear!" Mister Strange swung open the door, almost clipping the tray and sending it contents everywhere. "You know Winterfelt, your daughter really is gorgeous!" He looked her up and down, really examining her, and then turned around to look at her father. Violet followed his gaze. Her father looked visibly shaken. He stood by his desk leaning against it with one had for support, a small bit of perspiration broken out over his lined forehead.

"Yes, so beautiful indeed." He continued speaking about Violet, but Mister Strange's eyes remained on her father, "And young too . . . so full of life." Finally he turned to Violet, "Aren't you?" He gave her another one of those, shark like grins, before taking the platter. And dismissing her by shutting the door in her face, leaving Violet to stand there wondering what she had just bared witness to.

They were well into the afternoon by now with stomachs full of alcohol and no food. Always a great combination when it comes to decision making, Jackson thought bitterly. He wasn't a bulky man, but he was incredibly talk and the bulk he had on him was muscle, which wasn't doing him any favors in staying sober. He had read somewhere, once, that the fatter you are the harder it is for you to get drunk. Whereas conversely the more muscular you are the more effective the alcohol is in taking affect. This is because the alcohol can be absorbed by the fat cells. Unlike muscle, the alcohol has nowhere to go, but directly into the system. So needless to say he was beginning to feel it. In fact he was feeling so good he didn't even care about the incessant giggling from the girls. The blonde leaned over to him; he felt her hot sticky breath on his neck. She smelled of pizza, cheap knock of perfume and booze.

"How about we kick, your roommate out of here for a little while?" She sucked his ear into her mouth, and rolled it around. Not the most original, nor the greatest foreplay, but who was he to put a damper on the mood. She moved along his jawline, littering it with kisses. Jackson looked up over the girl's pony-tail, and made eye contact with Ted. The young man in return gave him the okay symbol and a knowing smile.

"Come on, let's give 'em some privacy for a while. Shall we?" He pulled the other intoxicated girl from their spot and headed for the door. "And then afterwards we can have some fun," Ted nuzzled his face into her neck, and she giggled frenziedly, tripping over herself, if Ted had not been supporting her surely would fall over. Ted pulled the door shut behind him.

When she finally reached his mouth, she was a sloppy kisser, devouring his face. She pulled his bottom lip into her mouth and sucked hard. It didn't matter, he couldn't feel it. He didn't have much feeling in his lower lip. The Y-shaped scar that resided there had taken care of that. A crowbar to the face, the forked end had clipped him good. He was honestly surprised he hadn't lost his teeth because of it.

She shifted her weight until she was all the way over him, her hands tangling in his long mess of hair. She moved back and forth in a slow grinding motion, bucking her hips against his. She moved from his lips to his neck, her hands making their way down until they found his belt. She fiddled with it for longer than necessary, finally she pried it open.

She was good at it, but not great. Jackson had a fleeting thought she might be bulimic, because dang she could stick it far down her throat. But bless her little slutty hard working heart, because when he finally released, he didn't care how he had gotten there. She was even kind enough to swallow, and not make a big deal of it.

She stood up and removed her shirt. Her bra was covered in hearts with a cute bow. "You know, I always kind of had a crush on you." She pulled her pants off to reveal matching panties, only girls who are planning on getting laid where matching underwear.

"Really?" Was all he responded, disinterested.

"Oh, yeah. No lie, Mister Bakers class." She recounted. "Had a huge crush on you, you were so good at math and whatnot. Didn't think you would ever care to notice me." She planted herself back in his arms.

"You were in Mister Bakers class?" Normally he had a better memory than that. "Huh?" He shrugged. "I don't remember you. What's your name again?"

She looked slightly disgusted at him. "I just gave you dome and you don't even know my name?"

"Hey," He held his hands up in mock surrender. "I didn't take my own pants off maybe you should reevaluate your eagerness to give head to a man who doesn't know your name."

"I figured you remembered me," She growled.

"Sorry, doll face. You aren't sparking any recollections." He reached over and lit another cigarette.

She scoffed, "Whatever. You're really kind of an asshole you know that?" She flopped beside him on the futon.

"I've heard it before. Yes," he took a drag.

She rolled her eyes, "My name is Violet." Jackson coughed from the drag he'd been inhaling. Did she just say what he thought she'd said? What were the chances of encountering two young women at the same university, merely days apart with the same peculiar name?

"What did you say?" He asked for clarification.

The blonde rolled her eyes heavenward, "for Christ sakes are you special or something? You really are a piece of work. You know that? Of course you do. I said my name is MARIANNE!"

Jackson shook his head hard, "You know," he stood up abruptly, knocking Marianne the rest of the way off of him. "I really am not in the mood today, perhaps another time." He buckled his belt.

"Perhaps another time?!" Her voice cracked. "So what that's it?" Here it comes he thought bitterly, the hysteria. Women were incapable of differentiating between cheap sex tricks and meaningful love making. "You get what you want and leave?! Typical male! Even the smart ones haven't evolved past being an ASSHOLE!" She was beginning to shriek now.

He pulled open the door, "You're welcome to stay as long as you like, doll." And with that he set forth down the hallway, it was best to cut ties quick.

"FUCKING DOUCHE-BAG!" She threw herself out into the hallway, unclothed and continuing to scream at him. A few people whistled, to which she responded even more crudely.

"What over so soon, bro?" He met up with Ted and his girl as he rounded the corner of the recreation facilities.

"I think she requires immediate attention from the both of you," was all Jackson responded, ignoring the screeches.

"Can do bubba!" Ted saluted him as he pulled his female towards the distress calls.

For the second time that day Jackson entered to stairwell, this time he descended. He was still close with the lady who ran the records room, and Jackson Napier had a keen new interest in this Violet Winterfelt.

_Please read and review_

_ -R_


End file.
